


flowey gets the bees knees

by kamukura (Kamu)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bees, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamu/pseuds/kamukura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flowey succumbs to the forces of (human) nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowey gets the bees knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kammy/gifts).



> Never give a curious, attentive child something as fragile as a flower.

Frisk knows Flowey was being spoiled down in the underground. Flowey once went on and on about how cruel the surface world is, that it’s _killed or be killed_ , but Frisk knows. Flowey has only ever known the cruelty of humans. Flowey has yet to learn its place in the world.

Frisk likes helping. It’s why Frisk dug around in the remainders of whatever was left in Papyrus and Sans’ shed and found a pot and a cracked trowel from the old excavator from Waterfall.

Frisk wants Flowey to know the world. Maybe, they could try to revive what’s left of its soul. It’s worth a shot, and Flowey could do little without its roots anchoring it to the ground. Having Asriel’s soul return to flower form had weakened it somewhat. This was Frisk’s only chance.

Frisk once knew pain. A human like them has to know it more than once to recognize it. Helping the flower learn about pain would be saving it, they think. Pain anchors living things to the world, and if none knew pain, how could they know they exist? This would be helping Flowey.

Frisk also knows Flowey lies. Flowey tries anything to get what it wants.

Right now, Flowey wants Frisk to close the window.

Frisk asks Flowey the reason.

Flowey’s face distorts.

“You’re asking _why?”_ It scoffs. “I’m cold! Look, my leaves are quivering.” The flower does a convincing act of shaking its leaves.

Frisk shakes their head and returns to their books. It was the dead of summer, and a cold draft was the last thing to occur on the forecast. Frisk also doubts a plant could be bothered by something as mild as an out-of-season wind.

Flowey continues to moan and complain from its place on the sill as Frisk ignores it. It goes on long enough even Frisk’s determination to wait it out grows thin. They shut their books and turn to gaze at Flowey.

Flowey’s body perks up and immediately its volume heightens. Frisk has done a good job of tuning out most of the flower’s chatter. Flowey can’t do much otherwise. Frisk had specifically placed it in a pot that wouldn’t shatter or move if a flower so happened to grab on to something and try to flip it over. Unlike ceramic, stone flowerpots endured a whole lot more than the plastic kind. Frisk had spent quite a lot on the specially durable flowerpot. Their investment was put to good use.

“Dammit, I don’t want to sit here all pretty for you!” Flowey’s face distorts again into something uglier. “I want to become god! Not your dog or pet or whatever.”

Frisk’s face must be doing something, because Flowey rears back in disgust.

“Ugh, you’re so condescending. What’s with that face? I know in some alternate universe I must have become a god, so don’t think it’s impossible for me yet.”

Frisk nods and goes back to studying. They feel reassured Flowey was back to normal. The fear Flowey showed earlier as it eyed something out the window had sparked their curiosity, but it seemed the threat was now gone.

This gives Frisk an idea.

They would have to test it later as they note the darkening light outside. Homework had to be done first and foremost before dinner.

 

* * *

 

Frisk tells Flowey it will be sleeping outside tonight.

Flowey squints at them in suspicion.

“What are you trying to pull? You know I hate the cold.”

Frisk shrugs and tells Flowey to face its fears.

“I don’t want to!”

Frisk tells Flowey it must, and proceeds to heft the pot out the window and onto the shaky metal frame of the fire exit. Flowey flails and tries to hit Frisk. The weak leaves, from lack of watering over the past two months, puts little strength in the flower.

Frisk assures Flowey it will be alright and they will return to it tomorrow.

Later, Flowey mutters spitefully.

“You’re such a liar.”

 

* * *

 

Frisk has been told they have a knack for mechanics.

For home economics, not so much.

The instructor for the class writes with disappointment, “Frisk does not have a way with living things. Their understanding runs only skin deep. Frisk has very thick skin.”

What the instructor does not include in their commentary is that they sometimes wonder if Frisk is even a living being themselves. Every living thing in their grasp seems to break and die. Could Frisk even understand what it means to live?

The teacher concludes Frisk has no soul after the third class pet dies. Even the cactus they had desperately given to Frisk to take care of had died vainly within a month.

If Flowey was asked whether or not Frisk was human, it would give a clearer answer.

“Frisk has too many souls. Mix ‘em all up, and you get this ugly gray blob of souls that won’t respond to any stimulation that isn’t like themselves. It makes sense they would understand how a machine works. Gray, hulking, greasy, and disgusting...that’s how this ‘modern world’ is, so it makes sense that Frisk would adjust to it, too. Frisk is only an ‘idea’ of a character for the souls they take in to imprint their personalities on. An ‘avatar’, if you will. What with this ‘save file’, a soul’s ‘data’ will remain on Frisk forever until the whole timeline is erased. You understand what that means, right? Of course you do. If you don’t....just look it up, geez. The novelty of the modern world! It’s all right there, at the tips of your fingers, and you want me to waste my time and energy explaining? What a selfish, rude person you are.”

Flowey never answers the question.

 

* * *

 

Frisk is surprised at the durability of a monster’s soul.

It is early spring when the snow has melted and the grasses have been getting greener and less brown. Animals and all forms of life crawl out of their cravasses and homes in the ground, expecting a beautiful season to introduce new life.

Frisk hides from all of this.

Inside their room, cooped up with their tool box and toys, Frisk works on creating a fingerprint controlled box. The purpose for it will be revealed later, when everything is put together.

For now, Frisk decides to check up on their experiment. They had been so caught up with school, sometimes Frisk forgot to make daily notes on the progress. The winter months were particularly troublesome, so sometimes Frisk had skipped days.

Frisk opens the window.

It is exactly and oppositely what they expected.

Flowey looks like death.

Its petals are withered and dried to a wrinkly brown. The leaves have curled in and cracked. A few had fallen to the bottom of the dry soil, scattered into dust.

The stem droops until the head of the flower touches the rim of the pot. As Frisk looks down at the flower, the black spots that had looked like rot move in what might be an eye motion of looking up.

“You’re back.”

Frisk tries not to wince.  

“You lied.”

Frisk can’t disagree.

“Kill me.”

Frisk can’t do that.

“Bring me back to the Underground.”

Frisk can’t do that, either.

Flowey sighs with such weariness Frisk almost believes it is truly tired of its winter-long suffering.

“Fine. Do what you want with me.”

Frisk knows Flowey lies. That’s why they will do what they wish, not the opposite. They hate to dash the flower’s hopes, but this is for Flowey’s own good.

Frisk thanks Flowey and hefts the pot inside the warmth of their room.

Flowey rolls its eyes, and tries to hide the relieved droop of its stem.

 

* * *

 

Frisk has improved in home economics.

The teacher is so proud they were wrong. They write with flourish how thankful they are of their prize student who had improved the most in the class. Surely, this turnaround would make Frisk a highly sought florist with an advanced expertise in horticulture for the years to come.

The teacher shakes their head in worry as they write the report.

“Frisk needs to broaden their range of plants. Buttercups are nice to look at, but their season to blossom is short and out of season.”

 

* * *

 

Flowey is back and stronger than ever.

It is also snider and as standoffish as ever.

“You were trying to toughen me up, huh? Sorry, scaring me like that won’t do me any good. I’ve died before, remember? Multiple times, in fact. You have, too. Good thing I’m more tenacious than most souls. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

It is another day in Frisk’s room with the sun shining in through the blinds and Frisk donning gloves to protect their hands from the heat and tools laid out across their desk.

A few months of watering Flowey and replacing its soil had livened it up to their usual health. Flowey acted ungrateful, which was normal. What was unusual, was its demands for Frisk’s care. If Frisk was not punctual, Flowey would throw a fit for days, mostly with screaming. Frisk liked their peace for the utmost amount of determination, along with a good night’s rest.

“You have no friends.”

Frisk is very aware.

“I’m the only one who knows the truth, you know? So, I’m basically the only one to talk to. I know all your secrets.”

Flowey isn’t a god. Frisk has some things they could never reveal, even to Flowey.

Their days go on like this until mid-spring. According to their research, this was the time where the weather was most pleasant.

Frisk opens the window. The breeze from outside enters the heat of the room. The noise from the streets and city flow inside, proving the walls and window were excellent noise cancellers. Flowey barely flinches at the slight disturbance.

Frisk nods to themselves. Everything is perfect.

They turn to Flowey.

The flower doesn’t notice the shadow across its pot until it’s too late.

 

* * *

 

Frisk gets plenty of good sleep the following nights.

 

* * *

 

They have their window open a crack when Frisk hears a blood-curdling screech.

Frisk flies toward the window, worried maybe a bird had snatched up the flower with their sharp beaks and taken Flowey away forever. If such a thing happened, then there was no point in continuing the experiment.

Flowey turns at the slide of the window. It refuses to take its eyes off of a point on the metal railing.

Frisk asks what’s the matter.

“That.”

Flowey points a leaf at the point it was staring fixedly on. Frisk opens their eyes to peer at it.

It is a single bumblebee.

Frisk wants to laugh.

“W-what? Why are you laughing?” Flowey loudly whispers.

Frisk says bumblebees are harmless and help the world. They can’t do more than sting a little. They’re the cutest most vital thing to giving earth life.

“Who cares? I’m sca—”

Flower seizes up before it can finish what it was going to say.

Frisk understands completely.

“Yeah, there are some things I’m afraid of, okay?” Flowey defends. “I’m not the one who’s scared, though. It’s the flower part of me.”

Frisk is confused.

Flowey almost looks away to glare at Frisk.

“The feeling is telling me I’ll die if I let that bee get near me. You understand, don’t you? I saw your scores for your home ec class.”

It dawns on Frisk this is what Flowey had been scared of all those months ago.

Frisk observes the slight tremble of Flowey’s leaves as they both watch the bumblebee rub its knees together in the warm, spring sun.

Frisk closes the window.

 

* * *

 

As they lie in bed, Frisk thinks their city must be a particularly rotten one if a single pair of screams can go ignored for weeks on end.

That is the cruelty of humans.

In the backdrop of a modern city dependent on technology, a new pot is added to a rusted railing where another pot, recently emptied, stands. In this new pot, there is fresh soil and plenty of sunlight.

A single child nurtures the seed placed inside the pot. The cycle of this seed happens in the blink of an eye, and quickly, it blossoms.

The flower, an unusually large buttercup, opens its petals to its first day in full bloom.

The caretaker for the flower, the child, opens a box and holds it over the new flower. It needs to be said there is nothing inside it, at least nothing a normal person can see. After a moment, the child withdraws and returns to their spot on the sill to wait.

The child watches the flower from dawn until dusk. This repeats for a week, until they feel a shift in the air.

The next time the buttercup flower blooms, it has a face. It blinks at the sun and looks around in confusion. It looks down at itself, eyes widening.

It then looks at the window.

The child watches on adoringly.

The flower opens its mouth, maybe to say its first words.

The flower screams.

Some can say the screams of this flower are similar to the birth of a human baby, where a sheltered infant living in the womb for nine months screams with the burn of the gas it needs to live. This same gas, oxygen, is the gas that eats the human slowly, _gradually_ until the human weakens from what is called “old age” by the optimistic folk who refuse to acknowledge their own mortality.

Any bystander can understand by looking at this flower these are not the screams of life.

They are clearly screams of horror.

The child laughs for the first time.


End file.
